


The Ground We Walk is Ash and Dust

by context_please



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e04 Sateda, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Ronon is a little oblivious, Ronon is awesome, Sateda, Sexy Times, Shameless Smut, but that's okay because he's badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 14:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4352018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/context_please/pseuds/context_please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They take him to Sateda.</p><p>(Or: Ronon sees something in John's eyes and he wants to know what it is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ground We Walk is Ash and Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Meaningful Glances all throughout this episode. So much sexual tension I had to do something with it. 
> 
> This is my first explicit sex scene, so tell me whether it's good, yes?

They take him to Sateda.

He spits in the face of the Wraith commander. Reaches into his memory to dredge up every deity he once believed in and curses them. Struggles wildly against the cold hands forcing him down, bending him to their will. They can’t hold him. He is physicality. He is strength. He is resolve.

But they’ve held him before. And his gut tells him this will be the last time. Whoever survives the coming battle will be the victor.

The Wraith will never let him leave Sateda.

 

 

It all happens so fast. The planet is cold. Ronon hates the cold – it’s as if there are still icicles piercing into his skin and freezing his fingers, even though he knows it’s just a memory. He might not have any fancy degrees like McKay or Beckett, but he knows enough about his own mind: the memories are bad for him. He stays away from them.

The village is like any other he’s seen in the Pegasus galaxy. It’s not unique. He’s listening to McKay bitch, Sheppard’s familiar drawl soothing the grate of McKay against his ears. It’s normal, expected behavior. Everything about this mission screams _routine_ … so why can’t he shake the twisting of his gut?

Teyla asks him if he’s been to the village. He doesn’t know. When he Ran, he couldn’t stay in populated places for more than a few hours. The Wraith taught him that lesson. After countless worlds, the villages didn’t matter – there was only one thing that mattered.

Keep moving, keep Running.

The Wraith will come.

It all goes to shit. Of course it does. Between him and Sheppard, there’s enough bad luck on their team to doom Sateda all over again. He’s just glad McKay gets out.

He may not remember the village, but they remember him. He ruined their lives – still feels the explosions rumble in the soles of his feet, the vibration of screams in his ears. Those goddamn memories will never leave him, no matter how hard he fights, fucks, or Runs.

He stays silent as Sheppard tries to convince Ronon it’s not his fault. He doesn’t open his mouth – if he does, he’ll either cry or confess and he wants neither of those things.

He’s so tense his shoulders are made of brick. Teeth gnash together so forcefully his molars creak. Sheppard and Teyla’s voices are quiet as they make escape plans and scrap them just as quickly.

They wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. Ronon brought the Wraith to the village, long ago. He should have strangled the people in this village with his bare hands. It’s a better fate.

Self-loathing rises like vomit in his throat. His hands clench so hard the bars of the cell moan at the abuse. Rage follows – he can’t afford to wallow in fucking self-pity. They clash inside of him, vicious animals tearing into each other. Neither gain ground. His esophagus spasms. His skin burns. His body doesn’t know what to do.

Ronon’s hands move on their own. The villager’s skin is smooth beneath his rough fingertips, begging to be marked. Ronon’s knife can do that, so easily.

Keturah, the village leader, heeds his call now that Ronon’s holding a man’s life in his hands.

‘Let them go,’ Ronon demands, and it’s just an inch away from begging. ‘It’s _me_ the Wraith want. They had nothing to do with what happened here.’ His voice breaks.

Sheppard catches his eye. ‘Don’t,’ he warns quietly. They both know where this is going. Sheppard’s eyes are too complex to read – before the fall of Sateda, Ronon had been good with words. Now he can’t be bothered to use them.

He rants and raves, control slipping further beyond his grasp with every word. Echoes of fear and pain are stored in the ground, here. They flow into him through his boots, taking root in his throat. He fragments along with his control.

He digs the knife into his own skin. The metal is warm from the villager’s skin, the point wobbling deliciously against Ronon’s throat as his hands shake. The ground is shaking beneath him, churning his insides. It’s only when Sheppard takes a steady step towards him and yells ‘drop the knife, now!’ that he realizes it’s just his guts that are shaking.

Ronon talks more than he has in years. Apologizes for his stupid mistakes. For the lives he wasted. For the people he killed. For becoming a Wraithbringer.

‘We’re not leaving,’ Sheppard says. His voice lowers. ‘Not without you.’ Those eyes speak volumes – he’s pissed, probably won’t forgive Ronon for a long time. But that’s not it. Something else lurks there. It’s fierce and soft and anguished, twisted around and tied up in so many knots Ronon doesn’t know where the emotions end and begin. But emotions aren’t pure, can never be – and Ronon’s never seen this look before. _John_ stares at him, pleading, but they’re both as stubborn as each other. Neither of them will yield and both of them know it. Something has to give.

The muscles in his arms are twitching wildly. Conflict spirals within him. It’s the instinct to _run_. The instinct to protect.

The villagers let them go. Sheppard’s eyes promise something dangerous as he’s dragged away.

 

 

 

It’s hard to believe this desolate, ruined city was once the proudest in Sateda. She used to be glorious, rising up into the sky and reaching towards the Ancestors with all her might. His people tried so hard to be like the Ancestors that they forgot to learn from their mistakes.

Now all that’s left of them is ash and dust. Even the bodies are gone, worn away by weather and decay.

Ronon scrambles to make a weapon. He can feel the grunts and growls leaving his throat, but he can’t stop them. After a year, he was just beginning to pick up the fragments of himself the Wraith scattered – and now it’s all for _shit_.

His hands won’t stop trembling – his chest is on fire. The pain in his back dulls in comparison. He’s not equipped for this anymore.

John’s people taught him how to be human again. Now he’s forgotten how to be a Runner. How to be a beast.

The sounds of Wraith footfall jangle at his nerves, but it’s the memories that keep him off-balance.

Ronon’s an idiot, for going to what’s left of his house. And still he can’t stop himself. It’s a place he knows, and he wishes it wasn’t so.

Melena’s voice rings in his ears, and it’s not soothing like it used to be. The sensation of his fingertips on her skin, her hands on his chest, her warmth around his cock, is not enough anymore. It’s a poor imitation of what used to be – just an illusion.

And he can’t shake the memory of that look in John’s eyes.

Melena assaults him wherever he goes – if she were a physical thing, she would be stalking him along with the Wraith and he would put a knife in her head to stop the confusion and pain shearing pieces off him with every step he takes. But she’s only in his head, and it’s not that easy.

Sheppard’s face rises alongside Melena’s. Unlike Ronon’s blurry memories of her, John is startlingly clear, black leather jacket glinting dully to match his eyes, cheek twitching as he watches Ronon with that fucking expression. Sheppard won’t leave him the fuck alone.

And then he’s there, real, as Ronon is swept away by his own emotion and the memory of Melena’s fiery death. Melena’s screams are suddenly as real as they had been so many years ago.

‘Come on,’ Sheppard says, chasing the memories away. ‘You can thank us later.’ His voice soothes Ronon’s ears. He is achingly familiar and completely new.

Sheppard came for him, and Ronon doesn’t know why he doubted it.

 

 

 

Carson keeps him in the Infirmary.

Pain marches up his leg, but it’s familiar. It’s the hurt inside that he doesn’t know what to do with. Sateda split him open, and he’s not sure how to sew himself up again.

He’s on Atlantis now, with people that care about him, and that helps.

Ronon spends a lot of his time sleeping. The Wraith that hunted him for so many years is dead. All he feels is relief and bone-deep exhaustion. And he sleeps, because he can rest now.

When he opens his eyes, Teyla is sitting in a chair beside his bed. Her eyes are closed, the muscles in her shoulders and arms lax. She’s beautiful. Peaceful, in a way he’s never been. She is always composed, always in control. Graceful. Even now, when she doesn’t need to be.

‘Hey,’ he says.

She rises from her meditation with all the grace she usually does. ‘Ronon,’ she greets. She knows better than to ask how he’s feeling.

He hesitates. The words come slowly. ‘You came for me.’

‘Colonel Caldwell kindly assisted us,’ she says, a wry twist to her lips.

‘Why?’

‘Colonel Sheppard was adamant that we find you. Doctor McKay tracked the Wraith transmitter to Sateda but the Stargate was engaged by the Wraith.’

‘But… why?’

Teyla smiled serenely at him. ‘Why should he go to such lengths for an outsider?’ At Ronon’s nod, she continues, ‘I asked him this. He said he would give his life for you. For us.’ Her smile softens. ‘We are his family.’

‘Thanks,’ he says roughly. _Thanks for coming for me_ and _thank you for asking_.

Teyla’s hand is warm on his arm – as warm as her smile. ‘You’re welcome.’

 

 

 

The boredom makes him want to kill something, so he breaks himself out of the infirmary. Beckett sees him leaving and shoos him off.

Walking through Atlantis settles something inside him. Sateda isn’t his home anymore. It’s just a heap of rubble and ashes and dust.

The sound of the ocean is quiet, constant, and the murmur of voices surrounds him. It’s not busy in Atlantis, like Sateda had once been. It’s nice.

His feet take him to a balcony by his quarters. The breeze is welcome on his face, the smell of salt coiling in his nostrils.

Sheppard’s there, leaning against the railing, his posture as relaxed as Ronon’s ever seen it. He’s wearing the black leather jacket that frames his shoulders and covers his vulnerable neck. Ronon likes it.

‘Sheppard,’ he says, leaning against the railing beside him.

‘Ronon,’ he greets, a tiny smile on his face. ‘How are you feeling?

‘Better,’ he replies, and it’s true. It’s all because of him. So he says, ‘thanks.’

Sheppard finally looks at him, leather creaking faintly as he turns. Says, ‘that’s good.’ And his eyes are speaking again, whispering to Ronon everything he can never say.

Luckily, Ronon hates words.

His hand slips under Sheppard’s jacket as their lips connect, reeling him closer. Ronon’s tongue slides into his mouth, Sheppard’s hands tight on his neck. Someone’s gasping desperately into the kiss, but he doesn’t know who. His tongue wraps around Sheppard’s as lips press and catch. Ronon presses his cock into Sheppard’s stomach, feels Sheppard hot against his hip in counterpoint.

Hands leave his neck, pinch viciously at his nipples. Ronon growls into the kiss, adrenaline dumping into his system. He wraps one arm around Sheppard’s back, the delicious weight of him, dragging him in. Sheppard somehow manages to free Ronon’s cock, exposing him to the breeze from the ocean, the rough scratch of pants against overly sensitive skin. Sheppard’s – John’s – hand brushes along him as he frees himself, closes his fingers around the two of them. Ronon breaks the kiss, moans long and low. Pleasure spills through him like the Wraith enzyme, thrilling and terrifying. But this is _John_ : his leader; his friend; his family.

The skin of John’s cock is impossibly soft, softer even than Melena’s creamy thighs had been. His head is exposed, pink turning purple as Ronon watches. His fingers are tight around them. Callouses catch on the loose skin of Ronon’s cock, shiver over him.

John groans, sets his lips and teeth to Ronon’s neck. He sucks hard as his other hand slips down the back of Ronon’s pants to rub at his hole. The pressure trembles through him, his hand tightening in John’s hair. He keens, long and low.

John pants into the wet skin of his neck, breath skimming over his tattoo. ‘This can’t be a one-time thing,’ he chokes out, voice tight. ‘I can’t…’

He slips his finger into Ronon. It’s so good, so right, so rough. It’s overwhelming. There’s wetness on his face, and John’s hand strokes him, blazing pleasure across his skin. John’s hands take him higher and higher, and bring him crashing back to the ground.

He whispers, ‘okay.’

**Author's Note:**

> Writing Ronon is hard, but I enjoyed it. 
> 
> Sateda is such a beautiful episode.


End file.
